Hobbes on the beach in South Carolina.
Welcome, Pope Francis,
to the U.S.A! Click here for posts that mention the pope, including one written by our dog, Hobbes.
I’ve
been contemplating the depth of my loss in the death of our beloved golden Labrador
retriever mix, Hobbes, this summer. Those who read my earlier posts may tire of
hearing about this, but my hope has been in each one to speak to our common
experiences, not just of pets, but of grief, loss, and love.
I
can see very few stars in our sky over Atlanta. I have no nearby shore to walk and
watch the waves rise and fall. Buildings obstruct the horizon in every
direction. There are no mountains to
climb in our neighborhood.
Hobbes
was my touchstone for nature. Gazing at her I saw the artistry of God. Being
with her I also witnessed—in Evelyn Underhill’s words—the “homeliness” of God,
God’s everydayness, familiarity, and steadfast presence.
My
“congregation” is largely invisible and silent and at a distance: the readers
of my blog and of my books. Facebook, e-mails, and letters intermittently give
me chances to hear from you.
But
Hobbes was my constant companion, particularly needed during times of stress,
grief, anxiety, and loneliness. And, at the time of her death, she was the
longest intimate relationship I’d had as an adult.
During
her walks, she led me beside “green pastures” under the canopy of trees that
cover our city, thus “restoring my soul.” If walking with God through the
Garden of Eden was denied me, Hobbes was a qualified representative. Wade and I
are still taking her longer morning walks.
When
Calvin, Hobbes, and I lived in San Francisco, where I served as interim pastor for
a little over a year, they led me “beside still waters” of nearby Lake Merced
(“mercy” lake) and we played on the shores of Sunset Beach and Fort Funston.
Hobbes
and I walked together “through the valley of the shadow of death” with Calvin
when he was euthanized in our home there. Early the following Sunday morning, Hobbes
and I witnessed a kind of “resurrection appearance” when on our walk we were
joined by a collar-free silver-haired Calvin look-alike bounding in adolescent
energy, as if reborn. (For more on this story, see chapter 8 of The Final Deadline: What Death Has Taught Me about Life.)
At
Fort Funston, a doggy-friendly beach, we once encountered a baby sea lion.
Hobbes’s eyes widened with wonder, and I leashed her lest she get too close.
Together we watched as it returned to the sea. I walked on down the shore, not
knowing that Hobbes, now unleashed, was not with me. I looked back several
hundred yards later, and realized Hobbes was awaiting the sea lion’s return,
gazing out to sea at the spot we had watched it go back in the waves. She had
witnessed dogs go in and out of the water, and I guess she assumed the same of
the sea lion.
She
never fetched outside like Calvin, but she did love to play fetch and keep-away
indoors with her squeaky “mousey.” And she enjoyed it when I got down on all
fours, challenging me to chase her by slapping her front paws on the floor
while bending toward me, grinning and eyes sparkling with glee. So she also
brought me the re-creation of play.
Hobbes would join me, usually on our deck, for my morning prayers, eventually
expecting a belly rub on each side. At night and during naps, she often slept
on our bed, turning to face the open doorway, our protector as well.
Calvin’s
eyes were always happy, but Hobbes’s eyes ranged from happy to wistful to sad, with
soulful expressions, and she sometimes watched me longingly, especially in her
latter days. At times I wondered if she were my mother reincarnated, so
attentive she was to my presence.
Every
death of a person or of a relationship reminds me of how imperfectly I have
loved, and her death was no different. In
these final years of my life, I understand how imperfectly I have loved people
and pets, as well as congregations and the broader church. Thus I am all the
more grateful for God’s grace.
Hobbes
was a theophany for me, a living, breathing, furry icon of God’s wonder, grace,
and love. As a blog reader comforted me, “She was God in Hobbes-clothing.” I
will miss her. And she will always be in my heart.
Click here and scroll down for other posts that mention Hobbes, who even made it into The New York Times!
P.S. Since posting this,
I discovered that Pope Francis, in his June 18th encyclical on
climate change, wrote, “Eternal life will be a shared experience of awe, in
which each creature, resplendently transfigured, will take its rightful place
and have something to give those poor men and women who will have been
liberated once and for all.” He ends the encyclical with prayers, including, “Teach
us to discover the worth of each thing, to be filled with awe and contemplation
to recognize that we are profoundly united with every creature as we journey toward
your infinite light.” Thanks to Nicholas Kristof for his column, “A Pope for All Species.”
Copyright © 2015 by Chris R. Glaser.
Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite.
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I hear you, Chris.
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